His fingers inside her — the pace of them changing with the hips, the synchronized rhythm of both working together, the thumb outside matching the inner pressure.
Her hips were off the mattress.
Both of them. The full, involuntary lift of her pelvis rising to meet his hand while her throat was working and her legs were pulling against the sheet restraints and the milk was still running and her belly was swaying with the movement.
"'Her pussy,'" he said, to Vikram, with the tone of a man offering a professional observation, "'is soaked. Has been, for—'"
He checked nothing.
"'—several hours.'"
'''
'PAH.'
The sound of his hips hitting her face — the lower register of it, the heavier, the less-contained version of the rhythm finding a new gear. Not faster. Harder. The same speed with the weight behind it now, the deliberate quality replaced by the committed quality.
"'GKKKH—!! HHkk—!! NNGkh—!!'"
Her legs went wild.
